*I read the novella Kitchen by Banana Yoshimoto. This story of belonging, loss and love reminds me to consider my spaces.

Light floods in
from the large window
over the kitchen sink.
A deep, white porcelain,
the sink anchors this kitchen.

Water fills pots,
feeds plants,
cleanses the day.

A pale celery green
coats the walls,
tall, white cabinets
store matched dishes,
assorted glasses
and mugs —
each embossed
with a memory.

Stainless steel
hums
from the side-by-side refrigerator
to the stove,
coffeemaker,
toaster —
everything in its place.

Four square plates
hang inches apart
in a row
above the sink.
A golden green pear
graces the first plant
and each subsequent plate
loses a bit more of the pear
until only the seeds
remain,
ready to plant the beginnings
of a new feast
in this quiet kitchen.

*inspired by Georgia Heard’s poem of the same title

When my son was little,
he held my hand
to cross the street.

He needed a hand
on the back of the bike seat
when the training wheels came off.

So,
the day my son
crossed the street
to enter his college dorm,
my chest squeezed,
my heart skipped a beat.

Now,
my son is getting married ,
talking of kids
he will have someday.

No matter
how strong
a guide you are —
children leave.

And you,
go on working,
moving,
living,
loving,
every day —
even without them.

“Can you please pass the cream?”

Cousins sit
interspersed with siblings,
parents,
children,
new in-laws.

Like a collage,
conversations overlap —
cities,
decades,
generations.

Mixing memory
and laughter,
storytelling reigns.

“Do you need sugar too?”

When I was young
and creating the requisite diorama
for school,
I took large cotton balls,
stretching them
until the taught strands
made a diaphanous layer of clouds
to sit atop
a cobalt blue
construction paper sky.

Last night,
my husband and I
stood outside
in the balmy aftermath
of a spring storm,
gazing up
as wispy clouds
raced by,
trying mightily to catch up
to the storm raging ahead.

These thin gauzy clouds
reflected the light
from the city across the river.
Puffy and white
cottony and soft,
transcending time.

Heading out the door,
I struggled with a backpack strap.
So,
it was with great surprise
that I lifted my head
to see a young fox
standing still on the opposite sidewalk.

He eyed me curiously,
this young auburn beauty.
He wore his youth well —
lean haunches, big expressive eyes,
a tail not quite as long
as his elders.

I often see foxes
on my early morning walks.
They dart across darkened streets,
caught momentarily
in the pool of a streetlight
as they head home.

But this young fox
paused as if in greeting.

Suddenly,
the gray cloud cover,
gentle rain shower,
and long day ahead
vanished.

It was just me
and the fox
welcoming the new day together.

I have always been a bit claustrophobic.

Crowded subways,
cramped clubs,
congested thoroughfares,
all call for escape.

On planes I prefer the aisle.
At rush hour —
I would rather walk.
In any room,
I gravitate toward daylight.

But,
since the pandemic…

a window is more,
so much more.

No matter the temperature,
my first act
is to throw open the window.

Brisk morning air
inflates my lungs,
clears my head,
and offers grace.

In fact,
I am convinced
there is no greater glory
than opening all the windows,
and letting the world in.

Sometimes
on a Tuesday or a Wednesday,
I find myself daydreaming
about the quiet of Sunday morning.

An ache fills my chest
as I yearn
for the early morning hours
that seem to unfold more slowly
than hectic weekday mornings.

On Sunday,
rising in the predawn hour,
my dogs and I head out,
with only thoughts
for additional company.

Our walk is slow
as the dogs
sniff and explore grass
that was home to foxes and raccoons
a few short hours earlier.

Back home,
I start coffee and oatmeal,
the dogs wrestle on the rug.

For the next few hours,
until my husband arises late morning,
I have the luxury of puttering…
writing, reading, organizing.

No large task is accomplished,
no monumental decision made.

Rather,
Sunday morning stretches languidly,
like the curl of a gentle wave
on a quiet stretch of beach.

I came home to a small writing journal

in tatters on the floor.

Two pups hovered in the corner,

guilt written on their lovely bent faces.

I do not blame the dogs.

For words are delicious.

Words can soothe the soul,

cause love to bloom,

comfort the inconsolable.

My hope –

the poems

in the yellow journal

filled my pups

in the way

only poetry can.

Don’t get dressed in the dark…your shoes may not match.

Too much caffeine is not a good thing.

There will always be interruptions.

Trust your instincts.

Don’t get too attached to a special pen.

A friend will tell you the truth.

Take a walk everyday…it helps.

Books are good friends.

Summer is short, relish every day.

You are loved…every single day.

The squashed squirrel

lay prostrate

in the middle of the road,

not an unusual sight

for a busy suburban street.

What was unusual,

was the large predatory bird

sitting atop the remains

in the late afternoon light.

The bird’s scarlet-red head,

devoid of feathers,

had the wrinkled quality

of aged skin.

Standing at least two feet tall,

the bird dwarfed its prey,

and when its wings expanded,

the 6 foot shadow

enveloped the street’s center.

Afraid of no one,

the giant vulture

stared down passing humans.

When cars approached,

the bird moved only a few feet away

before returning to its meal.

My dogs and I moved on…

disquieted by the encounter

with one so bold,

so fearless,

so honest.